


Bruce Wayne and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by Sleepyhollow_101



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne Whump, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne is also a stubborn jackass sometimes, But he's working on it, Clark DEFINITELY loves him anyway, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Probably not super canon compliant, but we love him anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepyhollow_101/pseuds/Sleepyhollow_101
Summary: Bad things tend to happen to Bruce Wayne.Luckily, he has a plan for everything.Until he doesn't.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 226





	Bruce Wayne and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Superbat fanfic! I'd love to hear constructive criticism/feedback/thoughts. Bruce is probably a little OOC here, but hopefully my characterization isn't too egregious.

You can’t plan for everything.

That doesn’t mean Bruce Wayne, obsessive paranoid asshole extraordinaire, won’t try.

Obsessive because he spends more time on his personal safety – and the safety of those around him – than anyone else in Gotham or the hero community. Or… well, anyone, really. Because he would prefer not to be hurt, and finds it unacceptable for anyone to be hurt due to their association with him.

Paranoid because in spite of all these precautions – and he has many, plans upon failsafes upon contingencies – he still worries that something will happen. Though perhaps ‘paranoia’ is the wrong word – paranoia implies that his worries are unfounded. As this morning has shown, his fears are very founded. Super founded, one might say.

An asshole because he _is_ an asshole. He is a _major fucking asshole_ and that’s really all he has to say for himself, when he realizes he’s made a mistake, a mistake he wouldn’t have made if he’d just listened to Clark for once in his goddamn life.

He’s recovered… okay, no. He’s _recovering_ from a nasty bout with the flu, which Tim must have picked up at school, and since Bruce has an obsessive (there’s that word again) need to sit at his children’s bedsides when they’re sick, it was inevitable that he’d become sick shortly after.

And he’s feeling better. Well, not 100% better. He has a nasty headache still and some body aches. His fever has slightly improved – it’s under 102, anyway – and his appetite isn’t back but at least he’s not actively nauseous anymore.

He’s… he’s… okay, he’s not doing a whole lot better. But he hasn’t been to WE in over a week and he really _does_ need to be at the board meeting today. Plus, R&D is working on a new project that Tim had suggested and he wants to check on how it’s progressing…

He’s making excuses.

The truth is, he got tired of being cooped up in the house, and when Clark called him out on it and asked him to take a few more days off from work to rest, Bruce did what he always does – rolled his eyes, snarked back at him, and refused to fucking listen. If he had just taken the advice in the spirit it was given, he would still be at home in his pajamas, not sitting in the back of an unknown vehicle with his hands cuffed behind his back and a bag over his head.

If he wasn’t sick, he might have noticed the car sooner. He might have noticed the men coming up behind him. He might have been able to fight off the hands that grabbed him before the needle slid into his neck. He might even have been able to fight off the sedation, at least until he could escape and get somewhere safe.

So, yeah. Bruce can plan for everything, except his own mind-boggling stupidity, apparently.

He shouldn’t be dwelling on that, anyway. He _should_ be coming up with a plan of action.

Except that he really does have plans upon plans upon plans. For this particular scenario, one in which he is taken unawares and is unlikely to fight his way out, he has a tracker. So long as they don’t try to remove his socks – which, according to his data, is shockingly unlikely, as only 3% of his kidnapping attempts have ever resulted in the removal of his socks – Alfred will be able to pinpoint his location. And so will Clark. So all he really has to worry about is the groveling he’ll have to do when Clark pulls him out of this mess.

He gives a half-hearted thought to trying to escape. He won’t make much headway in the car, sure, but once they’ve stopped and dragged him into whatever warehouse or abandoned building or what-have-you that is their destination, maybe he could wiggle out of his bonds, get away before they can catch him.

But his hands are taped together from wrist to fingertip _and_ handcuffed. There’s rope around his chest and his thighs and his ankles. They stuffed a cloth in his mouth and wound duct-tape around his head, so there’s no hope of getting his teeth free. He is, unfortunately, completely incapacitated.

They’ve also put something over his ears – ear muffs? Maybe? – so he can’t hear what they’re saying, beyond some vague murmurings. They’re being very cautious around him, ensuring he can’t see nor hear them – that’s probably good. That usually means they aren’t planning on killing him – at least, not yet. It buys him some time.

Of course, they won’t expect him to be awake yet. He’s built up a tolerance to most sedatives as part of his training. Usually it’s a blessing. Right now, it’s just a further pain in his ass – he’s sitting here, fully conscious but unable to _do_ anything.

At least he’s gotten a read on the situation. That much he can do.

The vehicle screeches to a halt – he’s thrown forward, saved at the last second by someone throwing an arm across his stomach, winding him. Has his rescue gotten here already? Wow, _that_ was fast…

The sounds are louder now – he still can’t make out what’s being said but he can tell there’s shouting. He feels himself being pulled out of the car, hoisted on someone’s shoulder.

And gunshots.

He stiffens – this is wrong, something’s going wrong, and he can’t tell what.

Before he can really register what kind of deep shit he’s in, he’s being thrown into something. A space of some sort. It takes the loud _thunk_ of the lid closing for him to realize it’s a trunk.

_Oh shit._

He starts trying in earnest to get free, now – twisting his wrists, trying to loosen the tape covering his hands, trying to shift the ropes enough to get them off. He gives it all of his concentration, but his head is pounding and the movement of the car is making him feel motion sick, and everything hurts…

By the time the car stops, he hasn’t gotten any closer to getting free, but he has worked himself up into something of a panic. As the trunk is opened he focuses on taking deep breaths and slowing his heartrate – there’s nothing he can do right now, he just needs to be patient, someone will come for him.

He’s dragged out of the car and hefted onto a shoulder again – it digs into his stomach and makes his nausea even worse. He prays that he won’t vomit into his gag – that’s a new experience he’s not dying to try out, thank you very much.

Eventually, he’s dumped unceremoniously on the floor. His head smacks against the ground hard – the ringing in his ears is almost unbearable as the bag is ripped off his head, taking the ear muffs with it.

He opens his eyes, but everything above him is blurry – he must have hit his head harder than he thought, shit, a concussion is _just_ what he needs right now. He can make out some shapes above him, people, and they aren’t wearing masks.

The odds that they want him alive are dropping. Rapidly.

Eventually, the blurriness resolves itself into something a little more solid. Bruce doesn’t recognize the men above him. He can, however, hear what they’re saying.  
  


“What’s wrong with him?”  
  


“Sedated, I think. Who cares? As long as we get him to the boss alive, he’s not our problem.”

“Do you have the crate ready?”

“As ready as it’s getting.”

One of the men – a burly guy with brown hair and a scar above his eyebrow – leans down and grabs Bruce by the hair. He starts dragging him off to the corner of – it looks like a warehouse, the floor is concrete, there’s boxes everywhere, it’s a mess. Bruce winces as he struggles a little, more out of pain than anything else – getting dragged by your hair _hurts._

His struggles don’t amount to anything and soon the man lets him drop back to the floor. He shifts over on his side and manages to lift his head enough to see the crate they must have been referencing.

It isn’t wood, like he might have expected. It’s some kind of metal and appears to be equipped with its own ventilation system. That’s all Bruce can make out before he’s being lifted and dumped inside.

No lighting inside – nothing but smooth walls and a small vent. He struggles to sit up as the thug sneers down at him.

“Ra’s Al Ghul sends his regards,” he says, before closing and locking the lid.

And Bruce is left in the dark and the silence.

+++

The first hour is the easiest.

He figures he’s as safe as he can reasonably be, at this moment in time. He’s locked in a box for safekeeping. Wherever they’re intent on sending him – to Ra’s or one of his lackeys – the journey won’t be short. It should give his family enough time to find him. All he really has to do is sit there and wait.

So he does.

Two hours in, he starts to get anxious. It occurs to him that, if this box was designed for Ra’s Al Ghul’s use, it’s probably built with trackers in mind. That is to say, they probably anticipated he’d have a tracker or some sort of panic device on him, and they’ve implemented technology to disable it. In that event, he can rely on Superman’s hearing to save him – Superman long ago memorized the particular cadence of his heartbeat. It may take a little longer to pick the sound out from the cacophony of the world, but he will, Bruce is sure of it.

Unless… unless the box is lead.

And Bruce’s brain is like a dog with a bone – once it latches onto a thought, it won’t let it go until it’s torn to shreds. If the box is lead-lined _and_ the tracker is disabled, Clark will have no way of finding him. There’s no reason to believe Ra’s has taken him. There’s no reason to believe he’s on his way out of Gotham at all. By the time they realize he’s gone, it’ll be too late.

He tries to calm his breathing, which has sped up without his permission. If he ends up with Ra’s Al Ghul – that’s an enemy he knows. That’s a worst-case scenario he would like to avoid if at all possible, but he can deal with it. He can figure a way out of this.

He loses track of time, at that point, his thoughts chasing themselves in a vicious cycle. Too many unknowns, too much uncertainty – but everything will be fine. He’s got a backup plan for this. This is exactly what backup plans are for.

And his head is throbbing and his nausea is rising and everything hurts but as long as he remains calm, it’ll be fine. Everything will be okay. Positive thinking – Clark keeps telling him to try it. Well, he can’t do much else right now, so positive thinking it is. If he just repeats it enough, maybe it’ll come true.

And then the sound stops.

Which is strange, because why was there a sound at all? It takes a few moments before it clicks. The sound of the ventilator – because without it, the crate is air-tight. The ventilator is the only way to ensure he doesn’t run out of air.

And it’s stopped.

His heartrate increases, even as he tries to keep his breathing slow and steady. If he panics, he’ll breathe too quickly, and he’ll run out of air even faster. The box he’s in is about six feet on all sides, he thinks – and he’s trying to calculate how much air he has, but no matter how he runs the numbers, it doesn’t look good. His worst-case scenario just got a whole lot worse.

_I have to get out of here._

He starts working on his bonds again, his control slipping when they remain stubbornly in place. He throws his back against the side of the box, hoping to make some noise, to alert someone to the fact that something’s wrong.

The more he struggles, the worse his panic gets, and soon he can’t stop himself from hyperventilating.

_This isn’t what’s supposed to happen._

He’s throwing himself wildly against the side of the crate now, completely lost to the adrenaline and the fear, and he needs to get out, out, out, he can’t be here anymore. He tries to scream, but it’s pitiful from behind the gag.

Nobody can hear him. Or maybe they can, maybe they turned it off on purpose. Maybe they intended for him to die this way the entire time.

There might be tears on his cheeks, but he pretends it’s just sweat as the fight runs out of him. The nausea is much worse now, and so is the pain, and it’s the worst feeling in the world, to just sit there and wait, knowing what’s going to happen. He might not even have an hour left.

_Clark, I wish I’d listened to you. I wish I hadn’t been such an ass. I wish I could apologized for this morning._

He can’t deny the tears for what they are, now, they’re streaming down his face steadily, but it doesn’t matter – it’s quite likely that no one will ever know. His family may never discover what happened to him.

And that’s how he sits for a while – huddled in terror in the corner, thinking of all the things he’d change if he could, all the things he’d do differently.

And then he begins to relax. Just a little, at first. He doesn’t even realize it’s happening. But as the tension begins to seep out of his limbs, and he begins to go limp against the wall, he wonders if it’s actually a bad thing.

His head doesn’t hurt as much anymore. He feels sort of… floaty. Numb. The nausea is gone – that’s good, right? He’s not sure. He’s having trouble holding a steady train of thought. It keeps getting away from him.

He’s aware that his breathing is labored – he feels like he can’t get a full breath. But that’s okay. That doesn’t worry him like it should. Because he feels alright, he’s mostly just really tired. And he’ll be in here for a long time anyway, so it’s okay for him to sleep, isn’t it?

Whether it’s okay or not, he doesn’t have much choice – he can feel his eyes drooping, his head nodding.

It’s okay.

He’ll be fine.

+++

Everything is bright and loud – _so loud._ His ears are ringing with it.

He opens his eyes and squints at the bright lights that flood his vision. It takes a moment to adjust, but when he does, he can see the smooth gray walls of… wherever he is. A box of some sort. Only for a moment, though, as he’s being hauled out of it before he can really register what’s going on.

‘Hauled’ isn’t the right word – he’s being lifted out, carefully.

He’s placed gently on the floor, which gives him the opportunity to look up and see a blessedly familiar face.

Clark is staring down at him, a worried furrow between his brow, a frown on his face that doesn’t belong there. Bruce goes to ask him what’s wrong, but he’s stopped by the gag he forgot he was wearing. Why is he wearing a gag, again?

“Bruce? Can you hear me?” It occurs to him now that Clark’s called his name several times and he hasn’t responded. He tries to make a noise behind the duct tape, some type of affirmation, but it sounds more like a groan than anything else.

Clark looks more anxious at that. “I’m going to take this tape off, okay? It’s going to hurt.”

Bruce isn’t concerned about that – he’s more focused on breathing. The fresh air is amazing. His brain still feels fuzzy and disconnected, but he knows the air is really important, for some reason.

Clark rips the tape off, pulling it out of his hair as quickly as possible. As soon as it’s completely removed, he pulls the cloth out of Bruce’s mouth. “Can you tell me your name?” he asks in all sincerity.

Bruce laughs a little, but Clark doesn’t seem to understand why that’s funny. _You’ve been calling my name, of course I remember it._ “Bruce,” he answers.

“What day is it?”

“It’s… Monday. Board meeting’s on Monday.”

Clark sags in relief over him. “Thank God. Okay, sit tight – I’m going to get these ropes off of you.”

Bruce does as he’s told for once in his life – he waits patiently while Clark rips through the ropes like tissue paper, sits him up so he can peel the tape off his hands and break the handcuffs. Then he moves to kneel in front of Bruce and asks him, “How are you feeling?”

Bruce opens his mouth to respond…

And then promptly leans over and vomits all over his own legs.

Clark sighs. “Yeah. That’s about what I expected.”

+++

There are advantages and disadvantages of being kidnapped as Bruce Wayne.

Since he’d been taken as a civilian – and his kidnapping was all over the news, obviously – Clark has to fly him to the hospital. They can’t go straight home afterward. And he’ll have to give the police his statement, and deal with the media circus…

Normally, he hates going to the hospital. But by the time Clark lifts him into his arms, he’s feeling a little more amenable to the idea. He’s feeling quite sick, much worse than he’d been feeling that morning, and as Superman carries him out of the warehouse, he sees smears of blood on the floor from where he’d hit his head. He hadn’t realized the head injury had been that bad, but he’s certainly feeling it now.

You might think one would get motion sick from flying, but when Clark flies, it’s so gentle and steady, it’s like you aren’t moving at all. Except for the breeze against your skin, of course, which Bruce is absurdly grateful for. Everything is so _hot_.

He drifts in and out until they arrive at the hospital. As Superman walks through the doors, he whispers, “I’m going to have to leave you here – but don’t worry, I’ll be back in a little bit with Alfred.”

Bruce feels a spike of… something as Clark tries to lay him on the gurney the nurses have already rushed their way. He doesn’t want to be left alone – he doesn’t want Clark to go.

“Mr. Wayne,” says Superman, “I need you to let go of my cape, okay? The doctors here will take good care of you.”

Bruce hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed Superman’s cape, but there he has it in a death grip. Taking a deep breath, he forces his fingers to relax. It takes all of his willpower.

“You’re going to be alright, Mr. Wayne,” says someone to his right, but it barely registers as he watches Superman turn and walk out the door.

It’s probably just the concussion, but Bruce wants to call out to him, to ask him to come back. He can’t do that, though, so instead he resigns himself to the poking and prodding of the doctors and nurses. And the MRI and the IV and the bandaging. He wants to tell them to stop, to leave him alone to sleep, but he’s too tired even for that. Besides, it would be rude, and he doesn’t get to be rude when he’s Bruce Wayne, not like that, anyway. By the time they have him settled in a hospital room, a steady stream of medication dripping into his veins, he’s barely able to stay awake.

He tries, though. He wants to be awake for when Clark comes. He can’t articulate why, exactly – it isn’t like it will matter – but that’s what he wants and after the day he’s had, he figures he deserves the indulgence.

It isn’t up to him, though, it’s up to his body and his body decides that it’s time to sleep. Before he knows it, his eyes drift shut, his breathing evens out, and he’s gone.

+++

He wakes sometime later, feeling only a little better, and still very much exhausted.

He knows immediately that he isn’t alone – there’s a hand in his, a perfectly smooth and blemish-free hand that he’d know anywhere. He grips it tighter as he struggles to open his eyes.

_God,_ he’s so tired.

“Hey,” says Clark softly as Bruce turns his head to look toward him. He winces – he’s going to have to be careful with the back of his head for a few days – he’s sure to have a pretty impressive bump.

“Clark,” he croaks, his throat hoarse. He hasn’t had anything to drink since before the kidnapping – he doesn’t realize how thirsty he is until Clark is holding the glass of water for him, and then he’s drinking it like he wants to drown himself.

“Jeez, hold on, slow down, Bruce, you’re going to make yourself sick.” Clark moves the glass away from him, but that’s okay, because now that Bruce can speak somewhat intelligibly, he has something to say.

“Clark, I’m sorry. This morning, I should’ve listened to you. I was a jackass. I didn’t mean it. I’m _sorry_ …”

“Shh, hey, take it easy,” says Clark, and Bruce realizing his breathing is coming harder, he’s getting agitated. He lets himself relax – Clark’s here, and nothing bad ever happens when Clark’s here. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard if you’re apologizing to me,” says Clark with a laugh. “It’s okay, B, I’m not mad. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Oracle did most of the work tracking you down – I found the men who’d originally captured you. Falcone’s men, by the way, what on Earth does Falcone want with Bruce Wayne? Anyway, from there, Oracle helped me track down Ra’s men via surveillance cameras. It took a while to figure out which warehouse they’d taken you to. I’m sorry it took me so long. When you were taken, I was helping evacuate people from a forest fire in Australia – if I’d gotten there sooner, Ra’s men never would have gotten to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Bruce. “You came and now you’re here.” He smiles at him.

Clark laughs again. “Why can’t you be this agreeable all the time?”

Bruce sighs. “Don’t get used to it – as soon as my concussion is better, I’m sure I’ll be back to pissing you off.”

“Once your concussion gets better _and_ you recover from the flu, you mean. Your fever spiked again, B. Can I convince you to stay home this time? For a few more days?”

Bruce smiles at him, thinking that he won’t need much convincing at all, not this time. “Oh, I suppose. I think I’ve had enough excitement to last for a few weeks anyway.”

+++

Bruce is in the hospital for two days before the doctors feel comfortable sending him home.

During that time, he is soundly scolded by Alfred for his stubbornness, Dick takes his place as Batman to make sure nobody notices his absence, and Jason comes to visit late one night, sitting next to Bruce’s bedside and reading aloud from _Pride and Prejudice_ until he falls asleep.

All in all, it’s not the worst hospital stay he’s ever had, Bruce thinks, as Clark wheels him to the car. He could have walked by himself, but both Clark _and_ the hospital staff insisted he take it easy. It’s a little embarrassing, being cared for like this, but Bruce is trying to be better about letting Clark take care of him.

Clark lets him get into the car on his own, at least, thank God. Clark slides in next to him, and then Alfred’s pulling out of the parking lot, bringing them back home.

“I hope you’re ready to spend the next week in bed, because I’m not letting you go anywhere until you’re _fully_ recovered, understand?” Clark is teasing, but there’s a hint of an edge in his voice, as though daring Bruce to argue, bracing himself for it.

But Bruce, even though he is an obsessive paranoid asshole, can also, on rare occasion, be reasonable and accommodating. And he likes keeping Clark on his toes. So instead of arguing, he just smiles. “Maybe I’ll take two weeks off, just to be safe.”

Laughing still hurts, but he can’t help it – the look on Clark’s face is _priceless._


End file.
